Adit’s presence in the doorway of the old village hall’s veranda broke the morning silence that had remained reverently undisturbed. The sturdy young man, his skin browned by the sun of the fields, looked awkward as he realized he had interrupted a private moment between Arya and Rania. He hurriedly raised his right hand, waving his palm in a gesture of apology for his audacity in standing there without permission.
“Sorry, Arya, Rania,” Adit said again, his voice trembling slightly as he tried to ease his own discomfort. “I didn’t mean to eavesdrop or sneak a look at you practicing. The village head sent me to check the roof tiles, which were supposedly leaking in the back, but as soon as I reached the stairs, my ears were completely caught by the song you were just playing. I swear, it felt so different from those instant pop songs they play on private radio stations these days.”
Arya slowly set his acoustic guitar on the wooden chair, then studied Adit with a searching gaze. He knew the young people in this village well: they were honest and innocent, yet possessed a fairly sharp instinct for traditional art from living alongside the mountain wilderness and local arts such as gamelan and angklung.
“Sit down first, Dit,” Arya said, pointing to the long bench beside the wooden table. “Don’t keep standing there like you’re about to be put on trial by the village head.”
Adit flashed a broad smile, revealing a row of white teeth that stood out against his dark skin. He stepped onto the veranda and politely sat in the wooden chair Arya had indicated, placing his worn baseball cap on his lap. His eyes briefly flicked toward the silver harmonica Rania still held tightly in her right hand.
“That was a new song of yours, right? What’s it called?” Adit asked curiously, his eyes shining with admiration. “I’ve never heard lyrics and a melody that moving. It felt like… it described exactly what young people from the village feel when they leave for the city and come home battered and bruised.”
Rania gave a faint smile at Adit’s guileless response. She placed the harmonica on the table, then straightened the faded sheets of paper covered with the lyrics to the song they had just played together. “We haven’t even had a chance to think of an official title yet, Dit,” Rania replied gently. “The song just came to life this morning from a conversation about the course of our lives together.”
“If I may suggest something, call it *A Fractured Timeline* or *Back to Zero*,” Adit suggested enthusiastically, without hesitation. “Oh, and speaking of the song, there’s going to be a youth association fellowship night at the neighboring hamlet’s hall next week, with youth groups from across the district. If you don’t mind, how about playing it there? So the other young people can hear that great work doesn’t have to come from some luxurious studio in the capital.”
At Adit’s spontaneous invitation, Arya and Rania immediately exchanged glances. A brief silence settled over the old wooden table. For Arya, the idea of performing in public again—even only at the district level—stirred up old trauma tied to the stage, the pressure of an audience, and the fear of failing in a performance. The psychological wound left by the destruction of his music studio in Jakarta still harbored a deep fear within him.
Rania seemed to read the turmoil in Arya’s mind. She reached for Arya’s hand where it lay on the table and gave it a gentle, soothing squeeze, offering him inner strength. Rania knew exactly how heavy the trauma had been for the man beside her after years of struggling alone against the cruelty of the commercial entertainment industry.
“What do you think, Arya?” Rania asked softly, looking directly into his eyes with understanding and confidence, without the slightest hint of pressure. “Are we ready to let our voices be heard again beyond this village?”
Arya drew a deep breath, letting the cool mountain air fill his lungs, then slowly exhaled. He looked at the sheet of lyrics before him, then turned his gaze to Adit’s hopeful face as he waited for an answer, before finally meeting Rania’s warmly shining eyes again. The shadows of past failures slowly faded, replaced by a new realization: this living wound had not been created to be hidden away in a dark place, but to be shared with those who might also be struggling to heal the same wound.
“All right,” Arya replied firmly, his voice sounding stronger and more energized than before. “We’ll play the song at the youth association event next week. Not to prove anything to the big-city music industry, but to remind ourselves that honest music will always find its own way home to the hearts of those who listen.”